


But Little Does He Know

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Lawrence 'Verse [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Godawful Kink Etiquette, M/M, Nothing about this situation is okay, Pain Kink, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sensory Deprivation, Threesome, blindfold, but everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28599090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Alexander is impatient, and George has brought him a surprise.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington/Lawrence Washington (1718-1752)
Series: Lawrence 'Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095620
Comments: 15
Kudos: 42





	But Little Does He Know

Alexander doesn't know how long he's been on his knees.

Time doesn't track reliably when he's blindfolded, which means there's no telling the true measure of this eternity of stillness. Long enough that he aches from holding his position, legs spread wide on the carpeted floor, wrists cuffed behind his back. He's chilly despite being more disheveled than naked, AC and an oscillating fan blowing cool air over exposed skin. His feet are bare, his shirt entirely unbuttoned, his pants open and practically falling off. His hair hangs loose, probably a mess from the repeated pulling of George's long fingers.

His jaw is tired from warming George's cock while the man feigned infuriating disinterest—while George sat at the damn desk reviewing accounting audits that could surely have waited until Monday—though of course, the work itself was never the point.

His cock is hard. It has not flagged in the time he has been waiting in this office alone, positioned in front of an empty couch without even his sight to mark the changing sunset outside the window.

_Has_ the sun set? He honestly doesn't know. The sun was sinking low on the horizon when George cinched the blindfold over Alexander's eyes, but beyond that he can't be certain of anything. Not when his senses are so wild and overwhelmed that he can't tell if it's been twenty minutes or two hours.

The fact that he is waiting in George's home office, and not his place of employment, does little to make his current position feel less illicit. The carpet is rough under his knees, the air crisp, the smell of the room all books and paper. Clean and professional and nearly identical to George's office downtown. It is all too easy to imagine clerical staff and the closest departments outside that door rather than the condo he calls home. The idea probably should not make his pulse race and his cock twitch the way it does. George has never touched him on work premises—it is one of the only boundaries the man respects—but Alexander has fantasized more than once about just how that might feel.

Alexander's own breaths feel too loud in the empty office, faster than the situation warrants. He is nearly panting with impatient arousal, and he tries to calm himself. Slow the rise and fall of his chest. He is not entirely successful.

Where is George? Is he still home? Alexander has been straining to hear anything through the heavy door, over the smooth steady rumble of the fan. But George must be deliberately quieting his normally heavy tread, because Alexander couldn't even track his footsteps as he left the room. Of course he hasn't been able to hear a damn thing since George disappeared and pulled the door shut behind him. That's the point of this game. Make Alexander wait. Make him desperate. Make him yearn for touch and satisfaction, and then string him out until he is incoherent with need.

He is reaching that threshold now, despite his best efforts to remain calm. Not a hand on him, and yet his arousal is as sharp as the moment George positioned him here and then withdrew. Fuck. How much longer is he going to have to wait? Not knowing will drive him completely out of his mind at this rate. Thank god George didn't leave him with a plug in his ass, or he would long since have failed the wordless admonition not to come. Even now, he is such a torrent of hungry feeling that it's a conscious fight simply to hold back.

Eventually, _blessedly_ , he hears the click of the office door and George's amused voice asking, "Have you behaved yourself for me, Alexander?"

He doesn't answer. The tone tells him this question is rhetorical, and in any case he doesn't trust himself to speak. The words are embarrassingly likely to be a cascade of pleas that will only resolve George to prolong his torment. In any case, his unspent cock will answer for him.

George doesn't speak again. There's the click of the door closing, and then silence so complete that for several seconds he wonders if he's been left alone once more. Fuck, he hopes not. He strains for the sounds of breathing or footsteps, but hears nothing over that damn oscillating fan. There is every chance George is moving somewhere behind him, barefoot and deliberately sneaky. Alexander breathes harder. Faster. If George doesn't touch him soon, he might scream.

Finally he feels a fleeting brush of contact past his shoulder—and a moment later hears the unmistakable creak of leather couch cushions directly in front of him. He imagines he can feel body heat too. The imperfect silence echoes differently now.

His mouth waters, and he hopes he will at last be allowed to bring George off. His efforts were harshly interrupted before, a prize cruelly denied him despite spending the entire afternoon kneeling at George's feet. It drives Alexander wild with both arousal and need when George uses him that way, wearing a deliberate air of detachment and _continuing to work_. Fuck, he even took a phone call today, sounding calm and steady and perfectly normal despite the warm, wet mouth around him.

Alexander doesn't know how _anyone_ can possess such rigid self control.

Now, finally on the cusp of getting what he wants—or at least hopeful for the desired outcome—Alexander is an electrified bundle of anticipation. He barely detects the soft snick of a zipper pulling down, can't hear the inevitable rustle of fabric that must surely follow. Then, without any additional warning, a hand tangles in his hair and jerks him forward. Off-balance. It takes him a scalp-stinging second to correct, and by then the thick head of a familiar cock is spreading his lips and forcing down his throat. The hand at the back of his head guides him inescapably forward.

Except this isn't George's cock. Alexander inhales sharply through his nose, the partial breath choking off as the length shoves deep. It keeps coming, hard and relentless, forcing wet pained sounds from Alexander's straining throat. The forward momentum breaks only when he has no farther to go, his lips straining around the cock's wide base, his face pressed flush to a soft stomach.

_Lawrence's_ soft stomach. 

He knows this in an instant. He knows the man intimately, after the dozens of times Lawrence has taken him with George's blessing and encouragement. He would know Lawrence's cock, hands, scent anywhere. Now, here, gagging around the impressive girth, there is no mistaking him.

George didn't warn him Lawrence would be in town.

It's a fucking fantastic surprise, and for a moment he's sure he will lose the battle to hold his orgasm at bay. Giddy, helpless delight zings along Alexander's senses. If Lawrence is touching him then George is _watching him_ , probably at close range. Drinking in the sight of Alexander's discomfort. Inviting Lawrence to use and hurt him, and savoring every second.

Alexander exaggerates the struggle of having his throat fucked. He chokes more noisily than necessary around the invading cock as Lawrence begins to drag him relentlessly up and down by the hair. Heat burns Alexander's cheeks, and spit and precome slick his face with messy swiftness.

He can't breathe, but who the fuck needs oxygen anyway?

"I think he knows," Lawrence rumbles, the lovely baritone washing over Alexander's senses like a caress. It makes him wish he were completely naked—exposed—vulnerable to the attention and demands of the men in this room.

The men he still cannot see.

"Of course he knows." George chuckles. He _is_ close by—he must be sitting on the couch directly beside Lawrence—and the approval in his tone lights Alexander's heart with elation. "My boy is brilliant."

For a time after that, no one speaks. The only sounds are the fan, the quick panting breaths of Lawrence's pleasure, the wet whimpers from Alexander's abused throat.

Plus an occasional digital shutter-sound that tells Alexander his services are being documented for later review.

Lawrence's pace speeds, and now he fucks in even harder. He is brutal and unforgiving, and Alexander thrills at the mounting violence of being touched this way. He is no longer gagging just for show—he can't control his body's reactions as he is forced to take each increasingly vicious thrust. Lawrence's fingers tighten painfully, pulling his hair, forcing him up and down without remorse. It's all Alexander can do not to come, as the rough handling sends a thrill all along his nerves.

Finally Lawrence drags Alexander flush to his stomach, wedging Alexander's face between his thighs and stilling deep and inescapable. Alexander spasms around the suddenly motionless intrusion filling him—but to his surprise, Lawrence doesn't ejaculate down his throat.

"Yes," George breathes beside them. "Just like that. Hold him there, _exactly like that_. Don't let him move." There's no shutter-sound this time, but Alexander is still confident George's phone is raised and recording him—capturing video of him trying to jerk back and away, desperate for air, failing to control his body's shaking, shuddering, choking attempts to escape.

Then, so suddenly Alexander gags even more noisily than before, Lawrence withdraws completely. Two sets of hands take hold of him while he's coughing and disoriented. They drag him up from the floor and clear across the office. All the way to George's desk—a destination Alexander only recognizes when they lift him onto it, putting him on his back atop file folders and paper. They position him with powerful precision, then drag his pants completely off, leaving him naked from the waist down. His cuffed wrists tingle beneath him, trapped at the small of his back, crushed against the desk.

Someone pulls his hair. Someone else pinches his nipple hard, and Alexander's startled gasp comes out graveled and wrecked. Then, without waiting for him to quiet, one of them forces his legs apart, fingers gripping so hard his thighs will be bruised tomorrow. He's ready. _God_ , is he ever ready, aching to be filled and moaning with need.

It's George's cock that penetrates him—George's hands holding him open—George's grunt of satisfaction as he rams deep too fast, making Alexander cry out at the welcome agony. Plenty of lube slicks the way, but it's not enough to negate the pain of having a thick cock shove into him without prep.

George hasn't fucked him in three days. Alexander read nothing into it before—sometimes they prefer different games, sometimes they are too busy—but now, as his rim strains around the thick shaft, he realizes it was almost certainly intentional. George _must_ have known Lawrence was coming. He wanted to not just share Alexander, but make a show of it. Hurt him. With Lawrence here to enjoy every sob and shudder.

Alexander is so caught up in this whirlwind of pain and pleasure that he barely hears George's murmured praise. A heartbeat more and then Lawrence is above him, taking hold of him with strong hands and forcing his head back. Without protest, Alexander opens his mouth, savoring the salty slide of cock across his tongue. His cries cut off as his throat is filled, and then there is nothing he can do but let himself be fucked.

Neither man gives him any time to adjust as they set a brutal rhythm between them. They take, and they take, and Alexander gives himself over to them greedily.

His own orgasm overwhelms him before they finish. George's voice chides with a gentle enough tone that Alexander knows he won't face retributive consequences—but the fact that they continue to fuck him is punishment enough. His body, exhausted and overstimulated, resists despite his best efforts to behave as they continue to drive into him. The resistance is laughable, and he thinks Lawrence _does_ laugh at him, shifting to press a grounding palm to his chest.

The endless use has to be deliberate. Surely both George and Lawrence are desperate to come by now, and yet they continue, leaving Alexander to writhe in a pointless effort to escape their hands and cocks. They hold him easily, crushing strength so deliciously casual. Powerful grasps pin him in place, until time itself ceases to function—until Alexander is aware of nothing beyond the irresistible rhythm pounding his ass and throat.

At last George comes, and Lawrence a second later, their sounds and shudders of satisfaction enough to pierce the overstimulated fog of Alexander's senses.

He swallows as best he can, gasping his first proper breath when Lawrence finally withdraws from his abused throat. He's coughing, sputtering, shaking apart atop the desk. George remains stubbornly inside him, and Alexander trembles around the softening length. George leans down—muscular weight grounding on top of him despite the way the slightest movement hurts—and presses a lingering kiss to Alexander's temple. Apparently heedless of the fucked-out mess Lawrence has made of his face.

"Are you all right, my boy?" George asks in a teasing voice, and only now does he tug the blindfold away and drop it onto the desk.

Alexander blinks, even the dim light of the twilit office too much after such a long time in profound darkness. George is a beautiful shadow directly above him, still pinning him atop papers and folders. And past George's shoulder stands Lawrence, expression coming clear as Alexander's vision adjusts. Delight and fondness—and in George's face a matching pleasure. Alexander's chest warms with a less carnal sense of satisfaction, and despite his aching ass, he raises his legs to wrap around George's waist and hold him in place.

He would wrap his arms around those broad shoulders if not for these damn cuffs, so he settles for squirming eloquently beneath George's pinning weight. Arching and rubbing his exhausted body against George's fully clothed front in a deliberate show of appreciation.

Of submission.

"Thank you, sir," he manages with a raspy, ruined voice. Then, before George can admonish him to be polite to their guest, he makes deliberate eye contact with Lawrence and repeats, "Thank you." It's not strictly an answer to the question of whether or not he is all right, but it conveys the point effectively enough. Of course he is all right. He hurts in the most perfect and satisfying ways. He is filthy and used and bruised in all the best places. He doubts he will be able to stand upright in the shower on his own tonight, and the thought of these two men who adore him having to pamper and take care of him…

Alexander loves the rough sex on its own merits, yes, but he also loves being treated like something precious. And he knows without doubt that _this_ is how the rest of the evening will go. Lawrence's fingers thread through his hair, a touch of softness and affection. And then they vanish, and Alexander can just follow in his peripheral vision as Lawrence cleans himself up and puts his clothing to rights.

He expects George to move then. Ease back and unwind Alexander's legs from around his waist so he can finally pull out and undo the cuffs. But it's only now, as Lawrence takes a step back and pulls his phone out of a pocket, that Alexander realizes George will do no such thing.

George is hard again. Still deep inside him. He has gone rigid, and there is unmistakable fire glinting like mischief in his eyes. Alexander is barely aware of Lawrence raising his phone, obviously recording the two men still on the desk, as George gives a slow deliberate roll of hips and smirks.

The sound Alexander makes at the agony of sensations is not entirely human.

"What do you think, my boy?" George's voice is still the same lovely, teasing tone of a moment ago, despite the sharp edge of lust kindling in his expression. "One more time for good measure? One more orgasm, and then we'll get you cleaned up?"

" _Oh god_ ," Alexander sobs, clenching his eyes shut as George ruts forward harder.

"Are you in pain?" Lawrence asks, and even with his eyes closed Alexander can hear the smile in the words.

" _Yes_ ," he snarls, knowing they want honesty—they want to hear exactly how they are affecting him—and so he puts pleading anguish into his answer. "Yes, oh fuck, it hurts."

"Do you want him to stop?"

Alexander drags in a shaky breath and forces his eyes open. Forces himself to look directly at George and rasp, " _Fuck me_." And then, only slightly steadier, "Fuck me up. Make me feel it for days."

"You will already be feeling this for days," George points out, but he also obliges, pinning Alexander more firmly against the desk in order to slam deep, so hard the desk scrapes a short distance along the thin carpet. Alexander cries out in new torment, arching and jerking beneath George's body. Then, maddeningly, George stills and asks, "Are you sure you want more?"

From behind his phone, Lawrence chides, "Don't be cruel George. Give your boy what he's begging for."

And George—grinning and strong and sure—moves immediately and ruthlessly to oblige.


End file.
